


How much is a pinch?

by mynameisnotthepoint



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Cooking, Depression, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnotthepoint/pseuds/mynameisnotthepoint
Summary: Some days are hard. So can be figuring out how much a pinch of oregano actually is.





	How much is a pinch?

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am again with a Linn-fic, my second one! This one is a bit darker and angstier. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [Treehouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treehouse/pseuds/Treehouse) for the encouragement and [Immy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imminentinertia/pseuds/imminentinertia) for reading through and making it more readable! ❤

The darkness covers her like a blanket. It hugs her prone form, pushes her into the wrinkly sheets, flits between her eyelids.

The elastic from the ponytail she forgot to take out last night digs into the back of her head. She’s still lying in the exact same position she was in when she fell asleep. Her lips are cracked and stinging from continuously biting them, and she tries to lick away the tiny specs of blood with her parched tongue. Her teeth have this strange textured coating; she hasn’t brushed them in a few days.

She can’t even do something so simple, something so insignificant, something so ordinary right. How could she ever leave this bed again? It would be better just to lie here and not think about the fact that at her house, the christmas lights have been hung up. She hasn’t checked the weather forecast in weeks - hasn’t had a reason to, really, Eskild gets whatever she wants and she transfers him the money - but she can just imagine her little cousins are coming home from school right now and running into the garden to build a snowman or to have a snowball fight.

She was never good at those. She was never really good at anything related to sports. She never caught anything, ran into every type of obstacle they had to jump over, fell down those weird metal bars, and got laughed at by a lot of her peers. Her peers who mostly had conversations she missed the beginnings of and was left to stand and listen and try to catch up and leave because she understood nothing and that was just what they wanted. She didn’t belong. Never had. With her red hair and her parents who didn’t believe in buying brand clothes and brand backpacks and having a car and just generally life things you needed in a small town.

She is just bad with people, bad with everything. _How can you be so selfish? How can you just lie in bed all day with no care in the world? Just take some vitamins and get up, everyone has dips in their moods, everyone has had to face difficult times, I didn’t have a lot of friends in high school either, just eat the damn food, I’m not throwing it away, you sit too much behind that computer, not doing anything, letting your brain rot!_

In moments like these, everything just locks up. Her eyes well up, and some tears run out of the corners of her eyes. They make a salty, chilly path down her temple until they are claimed by gravity and plop onto the pillow. Her whole face is clenched, her eyes shut tight. Little white spots, like static, dance behind her eyelids. She wants to scream, but her lips weigh a hundred tons and her vocal chords are dry. Still, a whimper escapes her, along with gush of air pushed out her nose, making her abdomen contract and her shoulders tense up even more. The white spots are now swirling around, forming a spiral. _Get out get up get through this thick head_. This isn’t working. She needs to relax, her body and mind should relax.

I want to feel fi-i-i-ne / oh / You only get one chance…

No, no, no. The spots dance on.

I love it here 'cause I don't have to explain to them …

Yeah, this works. What was the chorus again?

Now we moving forward ever, backwards never / Forward ever, backwards never / And when the going gets rough and life gets tough / Don't forget to breathe …

The white spots are shoved aside by a black blob. Then, the blob makes way for a gray mass as she wills her eyelids, along with her cheeks, to relax. She puts her hand on the bed linen and feels how it heats up under her palm. The material is soft, but some bobbles have formed because of repeated washing. Or maybe they’re just crumbs from the cookies she ate here during the last days. _No food in bed, you’ll get bugs!_ Her stomach growls. She hasn’t had much to eat today, except for the cookies in the tin on her bedside table. Maybe she should just try sitting up. She bunches up her pillow under her head, so she’s a bit elevated. Pushes up her body a bit more. Plants her elbows into the mattress. Her head touches the cool wall, then her shoulder blades. Sitting up achieved. Next to her, on the bedside table, is her phone. But she forgoes taking it for using what strength she has to switch on the light. Slowly, a yellowish tinge lifts the blanket of darkness and reduces it to shadows on the barren walls of her room. The lamp flickers a bit. She really needs to change the bulb.

“Linn?” Noora’s drawling voice sounds through the door, followed by a soft knock. “I’m making dinner, would you like to keep me company?”

This is her way out of her cave. She’s procured the shadows, now she just has to see what lies beyond them.

“Ok.”

After changing into a new pair of sweatpants, smelling her hoodie and deeming it still fine, she untangles the elastic from her hair. Then, she pulls her hood over her head and removes the duvet, pushes her feet out of bed and into her slippers, and leaves the bed. Gets up, different spots dancing in front of her eyes, shuffles to the door, pushes down the cold metal handle of the door, and steps out into the hallway.

 

* * *

  
The lights in the kitchen are on. Some soft Spanish music fills the room. Noora stands at the kitchen counter, cutting up some black olives. A bowl of minced onions is standing next to the hob. On the kitchen table is another cutting bord, a knife, and a red and a yellow bell pepper. Noora turns around, smiling at her.

“Hey. I thought you might want to cut those. They’re not very messy.” Noora points her knife behind her at the olives, which have drenched the cutting board with dark liquid. “I want to make pasta with some fresh tomato sauce, basil and mozzarella.”

“Ok.”

For a bit, the only sounds in the kitchen are knives hitting wooden boards and the Spanish music, which has picked up some speed. When they’re done, Noora fills some water in the kettle for the pasta and switches it on. Gets out a pot and a pan, puts them on the hob and lets the pan heat up.

She gets up from the table and hands her bell peppers to Noora. Leans against the kitchen counter and watches the oil in the pan form bubbles and start to sizzle when Noora empties the bowl of onions into it. Then switch on the kettles flips up and Noora pours the water into the pot, having turned on a second stove plate. When the pasta is in the pot and the tomatoes have been added to the pan, Noora turns around to look at her.

“I’ll let you do the spices. You’re standing next to them, anyway. I’ll tell you which ones to use and when.”

Hm. Should she be trusted with this responsibility? How do you even portion spices? What if the basil falls out of her hands and the food is completely ruined?

A heavy plop emanates from the pan, followed by a loud sizzling sound. Noora seems to have everything under control. So if she tells her how to use them, it should technically be fine.

“Ok.”

Noora smiles. For a while, they stand there, watching the tomatoes slowly dissolve and bind together with the oil and the soft onions. After a certain time, Noora deems it ready to put in the cut bell peppers. She also adds a pinch of pepper and a pinch of salt. Then, they wait again. The pasta is ready after a few minutes, Noora drains it and leaves it in the pot.

“I’ll add the olives now. Could you get the oregano, the rosemary and the basil?”

“Ok.” And so it begins.

“We need three pinches of oregano, one pinch of rosemary and one pinch of basil. Just dip your hand into the pot and get some out.”

Maybe she should wash her hands first. She goes to the sink and does that, dries them and then return to the spices. They are all labeled thanks to Noora’s knack for orderliness, and she finds them pretty easily. The oregano is basically small parts of yellowish-green leaves, the rosemary little green sticks and the basil dark green flecks. She grabs into the different pots, collects a bit between her fingers, and tries to put the right amount into the pan. Was that a pinch?

“I’ll add some oil and the pasta, and then it’s done. Could you get the plates and forks?”

After the stove is switched off, they set the table. Just the two of them today. Eskild is out to meet up with some uni friends. They sit down, and Noora portions out the food.

“It’s much nicer to cook with someone else. I’m really happy that you’re eating here with me. ” Noora says, smiling. She manages to return it with a half-smile.

The chair prods her back a bit. Her fork clangs against her plate. She sits up a bit straighter. The darkness is still there, but for now, there’s a bit of light seeping through, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to discuss the fic with me in the comments ❤
> 
> The songs written about: Feel fine by Emilie Nicholas and Breathe by Seinabo Sey.


End file.
